Agoraphobic Nosebleed – Agorapocalypse

The party marked by crowbars, PCP and schoolgirl piss. A frenzy, not so furious as fucking mean. With dueling hardons suffering an Indigo child knee deep in broken teeth howling “SHIVA, COME!”

“Burn my misguided empathies.”

Good time Lacy, 213.

A heart kept for days in the dark, rotting summer.

Female screams make it easy. A near human beating. A structure mechanized as a suicide pact looking back at a tornado of rust and glass and all little piggies nipping at the Corpse. Savoring the extremities first, unlike dear Jeffrey, who preferred the asshole. Clean. Tight. Terrified.

Cheeks make a better meal anyway, though the Germans prefer softened cocks.

I’m a pussy man, though. A coward.

An unremarkable epithet preferring to live out nightmares vicariously through the damaged art of reaction to the Judeo-Christian ethic, the bloodless arm of the law. The rites and reason that keep Western sons pulsing green with fattened apathy.